


Dead Flowers

by saucerfulofsecrets



Category: The Smiths
Genre: Angie's not in this one, M/M, Possibly out of character but hopefully not intolerably so, Would be very grateful for comments, sorry folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucerfulofsecrets/pseuds/saucerfulofsecrets
Summary: 'It was insane, thought Morrissey, his reaction to this, a touch, simply, nothing of importance. Nothing that should have been of importance, anyhow. Yet he was paralysed, unable to speak and afraid Johnny could see his face burning.'Love and idiocy and excessive dramatics.
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 80
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

There had been a few close calls concerning lyrics Morrissey had written—a couple of instances where he’d had to hold his breath under the puzzled expression of Johnny’s in the aftermath of the words. Moments of panic when he realised he wouldn’t know what to say in case Johnny decided to follow through with his questioning one day. Because he’d seen it on his face, the desire to ask. Why Johnny had thought better of it all these times, Morrissey wasn’t sure. 

He didn’t know if Johnny knew; the man certainly hadn’t mentioned it, ever, and presumably never would. If he didn’t figure it out himself, well, Morrissey wasn’t going to tell him, because really, what good would that do? Morrissey didn’t want to risk Johnny’s smiles at him morphing into disgust upon discovering his feelings. He could take the sort of reaction from anyone else, regard it with disinterest, even vague amusement, but Johnny? The thought made him sick, which must have shown on his face, since Johnny shot him a concerned look. 

“You all right?” 

He nodded, fumbling for a smile or anything reminiscent thereof, but coming up short. Johnny seemed not to accept this response. He crossed the room to where Morrissey was sitting on his bed and set his hand on his shoulder. 

It was insane, thought Morrissey, his reaction to this, a touch, simply, nothing of importance. Nothing that should have been of importance, anyhow. Yet he was paralysed, unable to speak and afraid Johnny could see his face burning. 

“You’re acting all strange.” 

“I—” He begged his good-for-nothing brain to come up with something clever— _ something _ , for that matter. Why now, of all times, did he have to find himself at a complete loss for words? He wanted to slap himself, and had he thought it to better the situation any, he would have. 

And oh God, why did Johnny have to be so kind? Why couldn’t he just disregard Morrissey’s feelings in the manner he was accustomed to, the way everyone else did? Of course, this was one of the things Morrissey loved— _ liked _ , he quickly corrected himself—liked about him, but it made it still more difficult to hold information from him. 

Sometimes, though Morrissey tried his very best to prevent it, Johnny’s kindness ignited a spark of hope in his traitorous heart, one that that would inevitably be extinguished soon, whether it was by a harmless flirt between Johnny and a girl at a bar or an offhand remark of his about some other girl apparently having taken interest in Morrissey. In any case, Johnny wasn’t, nor would he ever be, anything more than a friend to him, a good one, admittedly, but that was it. Case closed. 

“Moz?” Johnny moved his hand, his fingers brushing against Morrissey’s neck, and Morrissey wondered why it only occurred to him now what an excruciating task breathing was. 

“I’m fine,” he said. He dearly wished he managed to keep all emotion away from his face. Johnny was trying his very best to read his expression, he could sense it, but he would give away nothing. Not now and not ever. 

Johnny shook his head slightly. “I wish you’d talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. It’s not healthy, this thing you do.” 

“And what exactly,” said Morrissey, “is it that you think I do?” 

“You…” He gestured vaguely. “Keep everything inside. Believe it’s better that way, which—” He nudged Morrissey’s shoulder, as if for emphasis. “—it isn’t. It matters y’know? How you feel. You matter. And you should tell me.” 

“Well, thanks.” Morrissey’s tone was formal, bordering on icy, which wasn’t his intention, really. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Johnny when he only meant well. Unfortunately for him, though,  he was dangerously close to discovering the truths that Morrissey would rather he didn’t, the ones he hoped to keep hidden, preferably forever.  “But have you considered,” he continued, finally lifting his gaze to meet Johnny’s—very bravely, he thought, either that or very stupidly, “that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? As much as I appreciate your meddling, I’m perfectly all right.” 

Johnny’s hand fell off Morrissey’s shoulder as he took a step back. 

_ What would he say _ , thought Morrissey,  _ if I asked him to keep it there? If I asked very nicely? Begged?  _ Not for the first time that evening, he felt the overwhelming urge to slap himself. 

“Right,” said Johnny. “Of course. Shouldn’t have asked. You keep on sulking. ‘S what you do best.” 

Morrissey’s heart stung. He wished nothing more than to hug Johnny, to tell him that he truly was grateful for him and his helpful manner, just incapable of expressing this in a sensible way. But he couldn’t do that. It was better, he reasoned, that Johnny was annoyed with him, he'd choose that over the horribleness that would occur, were he to ever find out that Morrissey was in love—no; mildly infatuated—with him. 

“Well, it’s getting dark,” said Johnny. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t for hours. “I’m off.” 

With that, he left. Morrissey lay on his bed, his face pressed into a pillow, and wondered how and when exactly he’d become such a failure. Was hurting Johnny truly the only way his feelings could remain secret? 

After a long time of agonising silence, he picked up a notebook from the floor and wrote, first tentatively, then vehemently. He might have cried some, too, but this, or the reason behind it, he preferred not to recall. 


	2. Chapter 2

Morrissey’s peaceful sleep was rudely interrupted by a loud “Good morning!” sounding from somewhere in the room. At this, he nearly fell out of bed, after which he knocked his head against the wall and cried out in pain. 

Morrissey blinked several times, his vision unbearably blurry, and was able to make out the figure of Johnny standing next to his bed. 

“What…” he started, cleared his throat, and attempted to reform the question. “How did you get in?” 

“Used the spare key, y’know, the one you gave me.” 

Morrissey had no recollection of this. “Remind me, when was that again? Or why, for that matter.” 

Johnny looked thoughtful. “It wasn’t too long ago. You might’ve been drunk.” He then grinned. “Yeah, you were  _ definitely _ drunk. You said something about… That I never visited you here, and I told you we saw each other all the time, with the band and all.” 

“And?” Morrissey asked even though he dreaded to hear where this was going. 

“You said it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t just the two of us there. And I told you I had visited you, but stopped because you never answered the door, and…” he shrugged. “You gave me the key. Said to come by whenever I pleased.” 

Something was off with the story. Johnny wasn’t telling him everything, concluded Morrissey, and good Lord, he must have done something terribly embarrassing—something worse, that is, than effectively begging for attention from the man. “Did I, uh, say anything else?” 

“Well,” said Johnny, “you were sort of crying the whole time.” 

Morrissey stared at him with horror. Johnny had the audacity to laugh. 

“Don’t worry about it, mate. You were drunk.” He flopped down onto the bed next to Morrissey, so close that he might as well have sat on his lap. Morrissey debated whether to lean into him or subtly distance himself. The first-mentioned seemed more tempting, and he followed through, blaming the obvious lapse on his half-asleep brain. 

Morrissey was nearly hit in the face with the headstock of Johnny’s guitar due to their proximity. Where the guitar had appeared from, he wasn’t sure, as he could have sworn Johnny didn’t have it upon entering the room. 

Johnny started to play, a distantly familiar tune, a beautiful one, though Morrissey was sure he could have made anything sound beautiful. He watched in amazement as Johnny’s fingers danced along the fretboard, and more than once found himself wondering what those fingers could do to him—caressing his face, gripping his hair, then on his sides and on his stomach and lower, lower… 

_ That’s quite enough _ , he told himself, which regrettably and frighteningly did not work. 

Johnny stopped playing, rather abruptly, and turned to Morrissey, which brought on the latter’s face a tone of shame, as Johnny had definitely caught him staring. Oh God, he dreaded to think what Johnny had seen in his expression; a look of uttermost admiration, if his face in any way corresponded to what he felt. A reaction which Johnny without a doubt deserved, but should have got from a fan, or maybe some pretty girl at a bar. Not from Morrissey, that is to say. 

Johnny smiled. He put his chin on Morrissey’s shoulder and looked up at him, and really, what on earth was he doing? 

Morrissey was painfully aware of Johnny’s thigh pressed against his and, going by the fact that he was once again rendered incapable of breathing, he had to conclude Johnny was going to be the death of him. 

He could feel Johnny’s breath on his neck, which didn’t improve the situation. Not one bit. The universe wasn’t merciful to him today—not ever, as a matter of fact, but today struck him as particularly unfortunate. 

“Moz?” said Johnny. 

Morrissey didn’t reply. He was working very hard, after all, on keeping himself among the living. 

Johnny continued regardless. “We’re going to have a party tonight. At Andy’s. You’ll be there, won’t you?” 

“I don’t think—” said Morrissey, frowning, before Johnny interrupted him. 

“You’ll have to! You weren’t last time and, well, you’ll have fun, I think, no—I’ll make sure you do.” 

Johnny stared at him, a heartbreakingly hopeful look on his face, and Morrissey couldn’t help complying, though he thought getting hit on the head with a brick sounded more appealing than a party. “I’ll be there.” 

“Yeah? Promise?” 

Morrissey nodded. He left unmentioned that Johnny could have asked of him anything in the long catalogue of crimes—to the most triumphant results, no less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: https://panic-at-the-cemetry-gates.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

Upon entering Andy’s flat, Morrissey was on his thirtieth round of regretting every single one of the decisions that had led him there. He stood in the doorway, contemplating whether to leave—he’d promised Johnny, but surely the man could find someone better, someone more entertaining, someone not a complete waste of time to be with. 

However, it was at that moment he saw Johnny, who, having noticed Morrissey, smiled in a way that made Morrissey feel warm all over. As if by a strange trick played by gravity, he found himself drifting toward Johnny. 

“Hi,” he said, suddenly breathless, when he reached Johnny’s side. 

“You’re here!” exclaimed Johnny with an expression of great triumph. 

“Didn’t I tell you so? You didn’t by chance question my reliability?” 

Johnny shrugged. “Might’ve. Have a drink.” 

He handed Morrissey a— _ was that a teacup? Seriously?  _ He might need to start pestering Andy about doing the dishes. The contents didn’t look any more promising than the cup in which they were served. 

“What is this?” 

“It’s a recipe for—” Johnny squinted at him. “—great fun! I’ve proof of it, you see?” he said, flailing another teacup, this one empty, in front of Morrissey. 

Morrissey grimaced, bringing the cup to his lips. He took a large gulp of the suspicious liquid inside and nearly spit it out. He couldn’t recall ever having tasted anything quite as horrendous before. 

“This,” he said, pointing at the drink, “is a tragedy. I’m having no more.” 

“You’ve got it all crooked. Drink faster and you won’t taste it.” 

Almost certain he’d come to regret it very soon, Morrissey did as Johnny said. The liquid burned its way down his throat, through it, too, it felt. 

“This is most dreadful.” 

Johnny grinned and reached up towards Morrissey to ruffle his hair. Morrissey glared. “Give it a moment. It’ll be… Oh, it’ll be brilliant!” 

Morrissey thought he was certainly wrong. 

*** 

Half an hour later, Morrissey believed Johnny to be quite the genius. He did, in fact, feel brilliant—in a lovely haze and with a smile that, no matter what he did, refused to leave his face. 

“Moz?” said Johnny, his eyes focusing on Morrissey with such intensity that the latter squirmed. Morrissey quickly decided more alcohol was precisely what he needed and downed an adequate portion of something, not precisely sure where this something had appeared from. 

“Yes?” he replied cautiously. 

Johnny leaned closer to him. “Who do you write about?” 

“Who—I, uh, what?” said Morrissey with most notable eloquence. 

“Your lyrics, y’know, who are they about?” Johnny then grinned. “It sounds sometimes that you’re—” he made some sort of weird gesture with his hands, “—in love. Are you? Who is it?” 

Morrissey contemplated telling him. He hadn’t before, had he? Why not? He tried his very best to remember. Something about Johnny hating him, never talking to him again. But that didn’t make much sense. Did it? It seemed not much did at that moment. 

“Yes, I believe so,” Morrissey said. “I am. In love.” 

Johnny’s eyes were wide. “Who is it?” 

Morrissey shook his head. He giggled slightly. “I mustn't tell you. No, I think… I don’t think it’ll be good if you know.” 

“Why not?” asked Johnny with undisguised disappointment in his voice. “I think I should know. You’ll have to tell me.” 

He looked at Johnny, and something inside him shifted. Where there had previously been slight amusement and a desire to tell Johnny, there was now emerging panic and nausea. Johnny was too close and too enticing, and above all, could never find out. Whatever it was, the madness possessing Morrissey not so much as a minute ago, the strange idea that he would indeed say something, was now gone. 

“I need to…” Morrissey said, his voice shaky. He attempted to push his chair further from the table and almost fell in the process—he would have, had Johnny not caught him, impressively fast considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. 

“You all right?” asked Johnny, his arms still around Morrissey, though the latter was sure he’d be able to keep his balance by himself now. It wouldn’t hurt, though, if Johnny held him just a little longer, right? After all, it would be horribly idiotic to risk him falling. 

“Yes,” replied Morrissey slowly. He then put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders—why exactly he’d figured this was a good idea, he wasn’t certain. They were, he noticed, through absolutely no intention of such on his part, in an opportune position, were they, for instance, to kiss. A ludicrous idea, really, at which Morrissey almost laughed, but somehow, very mysteriously (on account of gravity, he figured, because that was surely the function of the phenomenon) he leant closer to Johnny, so close that he could feel the man’s breath on his face. It was at this moment, however, that Johnny regained some sense and took a step back. 

A deep frown appeared on Morrissey’s face. A small voice somewhere deep inside his mind scolded him for displaying his disappointment so obviously. Why this was bad, he couldn’t put his finger on. Surely if Johnny noticed his discontentment, he could do something about it. Morrissey had a couple of ideas. 

Straining his memory, he recalled having had a similar sort of conversation with himself not long ago, earlier that night, though how much earlier he wasn’t sure. Whether he’d found an acceptable answer, he couldn’t remember either. 

“Johnny?” he said, having noticed the now considerably tenser exterior of the man. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yeah.” Johnny cleared his throat. He seemed determined to look anywhere but Morrissey. “Yes. I’m good.” 

“Would you like to, uh, get some fresh air,” said Morrissey, nodding towards the door. 

“I’d love to, but—” He still refused to meet Morrissey’s eye. “—I’ve got something important I’ve got to do now.” 

With that, he disappeared into the crowd, either unable to hear, or pretending not to, Morrissey’s panicked shout of “Wait!” 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that when Morrissey next saw him, he had his tongue down some girl’s throat and his hands on her waist. Something very important to do, indeed, thought Morrissey. He tried and failed to ignore the sharp pain in his heart at the sight. 


	4. Chapter 4

Morrissey, faced with the fact that Johnny would be occupied for the rest of the night with company much pleasanter than him, stumbled out of the door. He couldn’t remember whether he’d had a coat when he arrived, but he figured he wouldn’t be able to find it anyway if he went back. And, more importantly, he didn’t want to risk running into Johnny and his latest conquest. Once had been enough, thank you very much—enough to leave him in total disarray, an inescapable longing taking over and also, regrettably, a heat burning everywhere in his body, where Johnny’s hands had touched the girl and where they should have been touching him instead. 

The cool night air did little to soothe him. He dug his nails deep into his palms, willing his desires to go away, somewhere deep inside him where they would never be dealt with again. He noticed to his horror that he couldn’t empty his head, and he reasoned it must have been the alcohol that had messed him up. Because surely, were he sober, he could have got away from these thoughts—ones that didn’t disgust him as much as they should have, which in turn frightened him beyond imagination. 

It wasn’t right, Morrissey kept telling himself, to want anyone this badly. He wasn’t supposed to. Especially when he was nothing short of undesired in return. 

He’d been walking for what felt like hours—how much time had actually passed, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t supposed to be this long until his flat. He must have taken a couple of wrong turns. He was heading in the right direction now, though, he was certain—at least some part of his brain was. A part that seemed concerningly disconnected from the rest that, in return, was making no effort whatsoever to help him find his way. 

Morrissey’s eyelids were growing increasingly heavier, and his feet followed the example—he wanted nothing more than to sleep. And well, what do you know! Such a nice-looking bench, not ten feet away from him. Wooden and uncushioned, of course, but in his current state he couldn’t feel much, anyway (he pinched his arm just to prove this point, and indeed; nothing!) so it ought to make as good a bed as any. 

The only problem was that the bench was occupied already. There was a man sitting on it, facing the other way. He hadn’t noticed Morrissey yet. 

Morrissey wondered how he should approach the situation. Surely the man wouldn’t mind sharing the bench—there was room enough for two. He’d just ask politely.  _ Good evening, please move over, for I am in dire need of a nap.  _ Or something along the lines. He’d apologise in the morning for possibly kicking the man in his sleep. 

If he stayed till morning, that is. Morrissey frowned. Surely the man must be cold, sitting there in the middle of the night. 

Was it cold there? Morrissey couldn’t tell. He wasn’t cold, didn’t think so, at least. 

Morrissey thought it an excellent idea to alert the man of his presence, and was about to, until a car appeared out of nowhere. He wasn’t aware previously that he’d been standing in the middle of the road, though he certainly was now, as he stumbled back and hit the ground, only narrowly avoiding getting run over. 

He sat there, gasping, for several minutes. He looked at his hands—blood all over, but at least his wrists weren’t sprained from the impact. He’d hit his head on the asphalt. He brought his hand to his face, and his sleeve came back stained red. He stared with faint interest. 

Morrissey got back up, with some difficulty, since he couldn’t support himself on his hands. He was limping slightly, had misstepped during the fall, probably. As he continued walking, he noted the bench was now devoid of the man. 

Morrissey figured he’d better go home, as the wounds might need some disinfectant. Now that he thought about it, he realised he presumably didn’t have any. Oh well. Water would do. 

Morrissey washed the blood off his hands. Without a glance in the mirror, he headed out of the toilet. He had, by some miracle, found his flat in not too long a time, the miracle brought on by sudden, annoying sobriety, which needed to be fixed at once.  Morrissey tried his best to concentrate—he must have something in the cupboard. He hadn’t bought anything recently, but maybe there was an old bottle, or one left behind by someone else… 

And there it was. He didn’t have to dig so far as the cupboard, because it was sitting right there on the countertop, as if someone had placed it there, preknowing of the course of events tonight. He was grateful for it, his ticket to bliss and regret. 

As soon as the cork was off, he brought the bottle to his lips and took a gulp so big some of the liquid was dripping down his chin. He hadn’t looked at the label—didn’t need to in order to know that this would do the job. The burn in his throat was enough of a sign for that. 

Morrissey sat down on a chair, one he ordinarily neglected to use due to its uncomfortableness, but which now seemed appealing for its location right next to him. 

He  _ tried  _ to sit down, at least, but the accursed chair had other plans. It tilted to the side under Morrissey’s weight and he fell on the floor. 

And he stayed there, too—after all, he reasoned, from there it would be exceedingly difficult to fall any further. 

He lay there, in silence little short of suffocating, with the bottle that had lost half of its contents owing to the fall—or perhaps he’d drunk it. Against his better judgement, he let thoughts of Johnny take over. 

_ Johnny _ . He shuddered. He wanted to cry, but for some reason (could it be the lack of water on today’s menu?), he couldn’t. 

Johnny had pushed him away when he’d stupidly leant in to kiss him. He’d been kind about it, of course—Morrissey should never have doubted that, should never have doubted him. But nevertheless, Johnny had turned him down and run to the nearest girl, likely to wash away the disgust he felt towards Morrissey, because, being a good person, he couldn’t well punch Morrissey in the face and throw at him every insult under the sun. 

There was still hope, though, that Johnny wouldn’t remember it the next day. If he did, Morrissey could simply blame it on the alcohol. He’d now learnt what he had always known, really, merely forgotten for one calamitous moment, that Johnny’s feelings for him were inexistent. 

He rolled over and was now lying on his back, his gaze fixated on the ceiling, though perceiving very little of it. And he felt nauseous—emotionally, he figured at first, but that changed quickly when he found himself retching before the sink. 

It went on for a long time and by the end of it he was exhausted. It was too hot in the flat and therefore, Morrissey didn’t head to bed and ended up instead passed out on the cool tiles in the toilet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would very much appreciate comments! 
> 
> My Tumblr: https://panic-at-the-cemetry-gates.tumblr.com/


	5. Chapter 5

Johnny appeared at Morrissey’s flat uninvited, once again. It was Morrissey’s fault, really, reasoned Johnny, since he had failed to pick up the phone, not unlike virtually every time before. 

Morrissey hadn’t opened the door, either, when Johnny had knocked. Johnny congratulated himself for the notable consideration for Morrissey’s privacy—after all, he could have burst in right away using the spare key (well within his rights since Morrissey had given him the key; he hadn’t even had to ask!) but he’d instead chosen to warn the man of his presence, had granted him the option not to answer. Or rather, had given him two minutes to mentally prepare for a visitor, since that’s how long it took for Johnny’s patience to run out. 

He opened the door, didn’t bother with efforts at being quiet—the last he’d checked, it had been 10 am. Morrissey should be awake by now, and if he wasn’t, well… 

Johnny had a real reason to be there, besides. He had to check Morrissey had got home all right last night. And, though Johnny tried not to think of it, since it wasn’t his responsibility, really, to spend every second of the day with Morrissey, he felt a gnawing guilt about leaving the man alone at the party. He was the one who invited him there, after all. And not just invited. Persuaded him, more like. And he’d promised Morrissey wouldn’t have an awful time, which, judging by his sudden disappearance, hadn’t gone too well. 

God, why couldn’t he have stayed with him? Sure, the girl had been nice, they’d had a good time, but had it been worth it to leave Morrissey all alone? Certainly not. 

And if that didn’t justify his breaking in to Morrissey’s flat, he had another reason, too—band practice, which, admittedly, wasn’t for another couple of hours, but surely Morrissey didn’t want to be woken up five minutes before, either. 

It appeared so that Johnny’s concern wasn’t entirely unwarranted. At first he thought Morrissey wasn’t in the flat at all—his bed was empty and all the lights, save for the one in the hallway, were off. Johnny panicked. Had he got lost? Was he hurt? If so, it was all Johnny’s fault and he didn't think he could handle it. 

God, maybe Moz had got in a fight somehow and was now lying unconscious in some alleyway, or perhaps he’d fallen into a pond and drowned, or… 

He noticed something about the bathroom. Though the light was off, he could make out a figure… Was that? Oh no. 

He rushed in and there he was, lying in the floor, in a state so terrible that Johnny’s heart beat faster. 

“Moz?” he said, cautiously at first, then louder when the man didn’t so much as stir. It didn’t help any, however, and Johnny, his throat unbearably tight, kneeled next to him on the floor. He put his hands on Morrissey’s shoulders. “Moz?” he repeated, and with great relief noted the frown that appeared on the man’s face. He was alive still, it seemed.

“Johnny?” Morrissey mumbled, opening his eyes slightly. “What…” He stared at Johnny, looking startled, suddenly, as if he’d only just noticed him. He blushed and Johnny noted his breathing became faster, uneven. 

“Hey,” said Johnny in a tone he hoped was calming. “Are you all right?” 

Morrissey opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Johnny continued. “Your face is all bloody. What happened?” 

Morrissey shrugged, tried to, at least, but Johnny’s hands still holding him down by the shoulders complicated the gesture some. “I don’t…” he frowned, then said: “I fell.” 

“Looks nasty,” said Johnny as he leaned closer for a better look. 

Morrissey squirmed. “Johnny, you’re killing my shoulder,” he hastened to add, though Johnny knew he wasn’t pressing hard enough for it to hurt any. 

“Come on, get up,” said Johnny. Morrissey protested. “You can’t lie there all day.” 

“Who’ll stop me? You?” Johnny thought Morrissey sounded quite genuinely argumentative, though he’d likely already given up. He always did, in the end. Perhaps Johnny should let him win every once in a while—for his sanity, if nothing else. Sometimes he did wonder, though, whether Morrissey even wanted to outargue him. So weak were his efforts, especially as of late. 

“Yes, me.” Johnny grinned and grabbed Morrissey’s hand. “Up, now.” 

Johnny ended up more or less dragging Morrissey off the floor, since the man himself wasn’t much help. He didn’t mind, though, because at last Morrissey was sitting at the table in a manner mistakable for a regular human being instead of looking on his way to the morgue. But the wound on his forehead looked horrid, even worse in this lighting, and Johnny wondered whether Morrissey would kill him if he dragged him away from his tea in favour of some light medical operating. 

“Moz,” he started. “We’ll have to clean the wound.” 

“Can’t it wait? You brought me here just now.” Morrissey didn’t look up from his hands when he spoke. 

Johnny shook his head. “Y’know what? You stay here, I’ll get something.” 

Morrissey’s pathetic medical supply (a nonexistent one, that is) didn’t get Johnny too far. Not that he’d have known how to use any fancy products, anyway, but something disinfectant wouldn’t have hurt. He rummaged through a cupboard till he found a clean towel, which he then soaked in cold water and with it he approached Morrissey again. 

In his concentration he must have made a ridiculous face since Morrissey had trouble holding back his laughter—which was replaced by a gasp, however, as the towel made contact with his face. 

“Sorry, sorry… ‘M not brilliant at this.” 

“That’s lovely to hear,” said Morrissey faintly. 

Johnny hoped to God he wasn’t making things worse with his questionable abilities. 

“There,” he said after a long moment. He wouldn’t have dared go on longer—Morrissey was growing paler by the minute. “It looks better, I think. Or maybe worse.” 

Morrissey nodded. “Thanks. I…” He cut himself off and took a shuddering breath. He then blinked, too many times—Johnny lost count—and brought his hand up to pull at his own hair lightly, then harder till Johnny worried the strands might come off. 

“Moz? You should lie down.” 

Morrissey shook his head, shutting his eyes tightly. His lips had a blue tint to them. 

“Please. Wouldn’t want you to faint on me.” 

“I’m not going to…” The rest of his sentence Johnny never got to hear, because the chair swayed concerningly, and in an instant, Johnny was beside him. He led him to the sofa, Morrissey’s protests never ceasing, though now so listless they went easily ignored. 

“Better?” asked Johnny once Morrissey was lying down. He sat on the floor next to Morrissey. “We’ve got a rehearsal today, case you didn’t remember. I can phone to cancel, though.” 

Morrissey shook his head. “No. I’ll be fine by then. When is it again?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: would very much appreciate any comments :)


	6. Chapter 6

“Moz? You awake? We’ll have to leave, though, I can still cancel if you’d like.” 

“No, no, I’m awake, I just… I’ll need a minute.” 

Morrissey sounded tired. Band practice was a terrible idea. Johnny ought to have cancelled without asking him, should have left him sleeping. God knows he needed it. And of course,  _ of course,  _ leaving it up to Morrissey to decide, Johnny should have known he’d choose to be unsensible about it. 

“Moz?” Johnny leant over him. “Are you sure you want to go?” Morrissey nodded, his eyes still shut. He opened them slowly and looked up at Johnny. 

Morrissey’s hair was a mess and his gaze unfocused, yet trustful. He looked adorable, thought Johnny, to such an extent that Johnny had to—simply had no other choice—but to kiss him on the forehead. 

Morrissey blushed, stuttered something incomprehensible and made a great effort not to look at Johnny. 

Johnny smiled. He brushed away a stray eyelash from Morrissey’s cheek—because there had been one, he could have sworn—and said: “Shall we go, then?” 

*** 

The practice wasn’t going great. Morrissey looked unwell, sounded dull. Every time he wasn’t talking or singing, wasn’t controlling his expressions, a deep frown took over his face. 

Johnny kept moving closer to him, subconsciously, as if ready to catch him if he really did pass out. 

Though Johnny could tell Andy and Mike had noticed something was off, he knew if anyone was going to say anything, it would have to be him. 

Wait till the next few songs, see if he gets better, Johnny told himself. And wait he did. 

He shouldn’t have. If anything, Morrissey was looking worse, and Johnny had to intervene. 

“What is it, Moz? Are you still not feeling great? I told you we should have cancelled. You need to rest.” 

“I’m perfectly fine,” said Morrissey with a supposed-to-be reassuring smile, but which seemed almost pained and faded from his lips far too soon, and therefore, only added to Johnny’s concern. 

Johnny put his hand on Morrissey’s shoulder. “You look sort of pale. Would you like something to eat?” Morrissey shook his head. “Some water, maybe?” This, too, Morrissey declined. 

“Moz. Say something, please.” 

Morrissey shrugged off Johnny’s hand and spoke in a manner entirely void of conviction. 

“I’m getting tired, Johnny. Of you. Your constant fussing. I don’t need you to—” He paused, gestured with his hands, then went on, staring somewhere in the direction of Johnny’s shoulder. “I don’t need you to protect me. You seem to believe I’m fragile, somehow. That I’ll break any minute. Which, for the record, isn’t true.” 

Johnny wasn’t sure why he felt the need to fight back. “Yeah? Maybe try not acting like it, then.” Johnny stepped closer to him, so close that Morrissey had to meet his eyes. 

Johnny wasn’t fussing, was he? Not constantly, surely. Right now he had every right to be concerned. Why Morrissey refused to acknowledge this, he hadn’t a clue. Morrissey looked sick—and Johnny knew he felt it, too. He had, after all, collapsed not three hours ago. Johnny feared that if Morrissey didn’t soon stop his foolishness, his all-is-well-and-don’t-you-dare-ask-about-it act, he might end up losing his temper, might say something he’d come to regret. Even more than that he feared there was something seriously wrong with Morrissey and he was making it worse by being here instead of his house where he should have been—where Johnny would take him if only he stopped being so stubborn. 

Morrissey was silent.  Johnny had to go on. He had to make Morrissey see how stupid he was being, that he benefitted nobody by refusing help and then sulking about it. 

“Have you considered,” said Johnny against his better judgement, “that I’m not thrilled to look after you? I’ve better things to do.” 

Morrissey must realise he only half-meant what he said, right? If even that—the more he considered the words, the less truthful they appeared. But he needed to say  _ something  _ and couldn’t well reason a ten-minute delay on his speech. There was simply no time for more thorough thinking. 

“Don’t waste your time on me, then. Leave me be—go out and find someone else, someone oh-so-wonderful. Because you will, surely. What’s stopping you?” His voice grew slightly shaky towards the end. He looked regretful, like he’d said too much. 

Johnny laughed. Cruelly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I would. Trust me, I would. Only I wouldn’t fancy you ending up dead somewhere. Only because I couldn’t pick up the phone. Because I didn’t run to you the second you asked. Might just happen if I left you alone. Wouldn’t be ideal, now, would it?” 

Morrissey flinched. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it and instead attempted to move away from Johnny. This, however, was proved difficult by his situation against the wall. 

He spoke, forcedly collected: “Get away from me.” 

Johnny complied. Morrissey sat on a chair, the one furthest away from Johnny, and his face appeared completely blank. How exactly he managed it, Johnny wasn’t certain, but he envied him slightly—he knew his own irritation showed on his face, plain as day. 

Johnny, too, sat down. On a chair notably close to Morrissey, just to annoy him. This earned him a sigh of resignation from Morrissey, which wasn’t great, but a reaction, nevertheless. Better than nothing, he told himself, though he wasn't sure. 

“Well…” said Johnny. 

Mike and Andy glanced at each other, and some sort of silent conversation went between the two. 

“Should we, uh, maybe continue tomorrow?” said Andy once he’d looked at Johnny, then Morrissey, then back again—like when crossing a road and checking for cars to not get run over—and it had become apparent neither of them intended to add anything. 

“That might be better, yeah,” said Johnny. 

Morrissey was gone without so much as a nod. 


	7. Chapter 7

It was some time in the morning, too early, was all Johnny could tell. He’d not slept more than a grand approximate three minutes, during which he hadn’t got any rest, but had still somehow plenty of time for a terrible dream. 

In this dream he’d wandered about the seemingly endless corridors of a building he’d never before seen. Then Morrissey had appeared, but every time Johnny made to talk, Morrissey ended up at the opposite end of the corridor, and remained there, till Johnny caught up, spoke again, and the scene repeated. 

It had to do with guilt, supplied his brain wisely, and true enough; with every passing second, starting from since the disaster of a band practice yesterday, though he’d been too annoyed to admit it then, he felt increasingly worse about everything he’d said to Morrissey. 

Throughout their conversation, Johnny had felt in a sort of haze, incapable of stopping himself from saying all sorts of awful things. Now, however, everything was uncomfortably, horribly clear. 

With what intention he’d gone about voicing those things, he hadn’t a clue, because if he remembered correctly, he’d begun by trying to be helpful—and had done a bloody brilliant job of that. How exactly he’d decided on what to say, he didn’t know either, since he couldn’t remember ever thinking of anything of the sort—not before he decided Morrissey ought to hear it. 

Although, he attempted to reassure himself, now would be his chance to reconcile—another practice, another wonderful day. Another chance to majestically fuck up an interaction with Morrissey. 

You had better not, he warned himself. You’d better not because God knows what… 

“Have you seen him?” said Andy, an odd hint of desperation in his voice, once Johnny entered the room. 

“Seen who?” asked Johnny. 

Andy ran his fingers through his hair and looked at Johnny as though he’d never before seen anyone of quite the same level of stupidity. “Morrissey. Have you seen Morrissey?" 

And indeed; Morrissey was nowhere in sight. And suddenly, with the weight of a tidal wave and then some, panic crashed over Johnny. 

“Have you phoned him?” asked Johnny. He didn’t wait for a reply before unleashing on Andy a series of more questions. “Is he lots late? D’you think he could be on his way? Maybe he’s just, uh… maybe he’ll be here soon.” 

“Y _ ou  _ were late, so he’d be, well, he’d be  _ very _ late. I don’t reckon he’s coming,” said Mike, who had appeared beside Andy from somewhere further aback in the room. 

“No?” Johnny had trouble keeping his voice steady, and God forbid, he was worried. And damn Andy and Mike for making him feel he had a reason to. “You don’t think he’s, er, hurt or anything, do you?” 

Andy shrugged. Mike stared at him, frowning slightly. Again: not helpful, thought Johnny. 

“Let’s call him, then,” said Johnny, but as he made for the phone, Andy shook his head. 

“No, we’ve tried already. Someone’ll have to visit him if we want a reply of any sort.” 

“Okay,” said Johnny. “I’ll go, then.” 

“Johnny…” said Andy. 

“ _ What? _ ” Johnny asked with indignance in his tone, which Andy didn’t deserve, not really, but he  _ was  _ being troublesome. Couldn’t he see how urgent this was? 

Andy looked apologetic. “Well, it’s just, I don’t think he’ll want to see you.” 

It felt as though Andy had punched him. It took everything in him not to argue, but maybe Andy had a point. 

“Yeah. I s’pose you’re right. If you’ll go, then, and, uh, we’ll wait here.” 

“No,” said Andy. “You go home. I don’t think we should bring him here at all today, just, make sure he’s, well, that he’s all right, and…” his voice faded out. 

Johnny nodded numbly and headed for the door. 

When he got a call a good half an hour later, he promptly abandoned everything he’d been doing (nothing at all, to be honest, unless staring at some stains of unclear origin on the ceiling counted) and rushed to the phone. 

“Hello? Andy?” He heard Andy mumble something in response. “Well? How is he? Are you still there, uh, did he ask you to stay?” Johnny thought he might suggest Andy leave and he stayed instead, if only Andy got Morrissey to give any indication as to how he felt about Johnny at the moment. “Has he eaten anything, did you ask—make him eat if you’re still there. And drink—water, preferably, although—” 

“Johnny,” Andy interrupted him, his voice so serious that Johnny’s stomach lurched. 

“What?” asked Johnny, though the word barely made it past his lips. There was an awful silence, one that seemed to go on for days. “What?” repeated Johnny, for the fear of the silence remaining for good. 

“I didn’t talk to him. He… He never opened the door.”

Johnny said nothing. There was a strange sort of buzzing in his ears. 

“What do you think we should—” managed Andy, before Johnny cut him off. 

“I have to go.” 

Of course he hadn’t anywhere to go, really. Moz’s, of course, but if he refused to let anyone in… But he had to get there somehow, because he had a horrible feeling—something bad must have happened, and God, he needed to see him, right now. Maybe he’d break a window (why hadn’t Andy thought of that?). Or maybe he could master the art of picking locks—it couldn’t be that hard and it might even come handy later in the future, or… 

He could use the key. A perfectly logical thing to do—the  _ only  _ logical thing to do, in fact, one he probably should have thought of before various acts of vandalism on Morrissey’s flat. But no matter, he just needed to find the key, quickly, thank you very much. 

Why on earth did everything go missing at the worst possible moment? 

He eventually found it in a coffee cup on his bedside table—a curious place to keep things, he noted to himself as he made his way out through the door. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would greatly appreciate any comments! :)

Morrissey’s flat seemed empty. That was until Johnny noticed the bathroom door—locked. 

A sense of dread settled in his chest. He wasted no time in yelling at Morrissey to open the door and banging it half a dozen times for good measure. 

There was no reply. 

“I know you’re in there, y’know,” said Johnny, trying his best to sound persistent instead of growingly afraid, which more accurately represented how he felt. “I’ll sit here all night—the rest of the year, if I have to.” Again, no sound came from inside the room. 

“Reckon I could break this thing down,” Johnny gave the door a light knock, “doesn’t look too—”

Then he was hit on the nose by said door as it was aggressively swung open. He lost his balance and stumbled back a couple of steps, grasping for the wall just in time not to fall over. 

“Ouch,” said Johnny, though he had to admit it was well-deserved. Maybe now they were a bit closer to even. Maybe it served to give Morrissey some sort of joy. He doubted it—Morrissey didn’t look the least bit amused. 

“I’ve got a fever,” said Morrissey, his voice so blank he might as well be talking to a door-to-door salesman. “Would you mind leaving?” 

Johnny leaned against the doorframe with a deeply contemplative expression, though he’d already made up his mind. “Think I’ll stay. ‘S probably not contagious. Besides,” he said with a grin, “you’ll need someone to take care of you, if you’re ill.” 

Johnny reached out his hand towards Morrissey’s face—to do what, he wasn’t certain, perhaps to see if he’d been lying about the fever. This he never found out because Morrissey recoiled before he had the chance to touch him. 

Morrissey glared at him, as though daring him to get any closer. He didn’t look particularly threatening, but Johnny stayed back. Morrissey spoke with gritted teeth: “What do you want?” 

“Came to see you.” 

“You could have knocked. I’m busy,” said Morrissey. 

“I  _ did  _ knock. Well, Andy did, at least, when he came by earlier. You didn’t open the door. So, you’ve no one to blame but yourself. And busy? I thought you were ill. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Johnny shook his head. “Busy with what, anyway—hiding in the bathroom?” 

Morrissey looked more irked than before, if possible. “I thought you were a burglar. Or a murderer.” 

“Nice of you to know my voice so well.” He was tempting fate, annoying Morrissey further—the opposite, really, of what he’d come here to do, but the opportunity was entirely too tempting to pass up. 

“I  _ did  _ open the door, you know,” said Morrissey. 

“After about a hundred years! What were you waiting for—that I’d leave? That might work on Andy y’know, but I’ve such patience you can only dream of.” Morrissey seemed to have a hard time deciding whether to be angry or amused—Johnny counted this as a win; Morrissey had been so very serious all through their exchange—but he looked about to argue, so Johnny quickly added: “Anyway—can we talk?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

Johnny shook his head and with a small smile (that Morrissey returned before remembering to hide it), he grabbed Morrissey’s arm. He led him out of the bathroom, all the way to his bed, on which Johnny sat, waiting for Morrissey to do the same. 

“You skipped practice today,” said Johnny after a long moment. 

Morrissey let out a hollow sort of laugh. “And I assume you’ve no idea as to why?” 

“No. I’m…” he looked down. He was suddenly drained of all the joy that had before allowed him to converse so freely. “I said some awful things. Which I shouldn’t have and I’m—” 

Johnny cut himself off, glancing at Morrissey and was, to his great disappointment, unable to interpret his expression. 

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?” 

Morrissey was quiet for a moment. The air felt heavy, uncomfortable, the way it never used to when they were together. Johnny hadn’t high hopes in regards to his wish. 

Johnny thought for a moment to propose that Morrissey punch him and see if he feels any better. He could imagine the scandalised look on Morrissey’s face at the suggestion. Then again, maybe he’d actually follow through with it… 

Morrissey looked at him with a sad smile. “Of course. Of course I’ll forgive you.” 

And consequently, Johnny’s heart broke. Because Morrissey would forgive him (he had known it before asking, really, had been a fool to doubt for a second), but not out of his own free will. No. It was because he had no choice, couldn’t help himself. And Johnny knew Morrissey would forgive him for just about anything. Johnny had hurt him, badly, and yet, would suffer no consequence. Not this time or any other, and for this, he intended to make sure there indeed would come no other time. 

Johnny wanted to shout at Morrissey to please be angry, wanted to express just how deserved it was on his part, but felt this approach might be too aggressive for a supposed-to-be apology. He therefore settled instead for wrapping his arm around Morrissey’s shoulders, hoping to convey beyond words what Morrissey’s forgiveness meant to him, even if it was self-evident he’d receive it. 

Johnny wasn’t sure how much time went by. There was a silence—a warm, wonderful kind. The room kept growing darker, for the ceiling light wasn’t on. The last sunbeams would soon have gone and it would be impossible to see a thing. They’d have to stay there on the bed, holding each other for hours and hours, till morning came again. He found the idea strangely appealing. 

“Johnny?” said Morrissey eventually, his voice trembling very noticeably. 

“Yes?” Johnny pulled him closer—that must be helpful, right? So he thought, but the next thing he noticed was that Morrissey was crying. 

“I… I need to tell you something.” That was what Johnny  _ thought _ he said, at least, though it was hard to tell—Morrissey’s voice was rather effectively muffled from having his face pressed against Johnny’s shirt. 

Johnny brought up his hand to stroke Morrissey’s hair. He was silent, waiting for him to continue.

For a long moment Johnny thought he was never going to find out what that something was. Morrissey was perfectly still, perfectly quiet—maybe he’d fallen asleep—but no, his breathing wasn’t even enough. Whether he was still crying, Johnny wasn’t sure. He hoped not. Hoped he could help with at least that. Then, with unexpected clarity, the words were spoken: “I’m in love with you.” 

Johnny froze.

“Oh,” he eventually replied, if that even  _ counted _ as a reply. His hand, still in Morrissey’s hair, he withdrew at once. Morrissey leaned away from him, refusing to meet his eyes, which secretly, Johnny was glad of. 

Morrissey was breathing rather quickly. He had stopped crying at some point, noted Johnny bitterly, but it seemed he might start again at any second. Because of Johnny, once again. He felt helpless—didn’t know what to say in fear he might make things worse, and so, he chose the easy way out. 

“I think I should… I should probably go.” 

“Okay,” said Morrissey in a voice so weak that Johnny wanted nothing more than to console him, to hug him and whisper nice things to him till he saw him smile. But he couldn’t possibly do that—how would it seem after Morrissey had just confessed his love to him? 

  
“Well I'll, er, see you,” he said, having stumbled half-out the room. He took one last look at Morrissey, which he instantly regretted. His eyes looked horribly empty—an image Johnny tried in vain to forget later that night. 


	9. Chapter 9

Johnny had left. Hastily, appalled, all because of Morrissey. 

He couldn’t help staring at Johnny till he’d disappeared through the door, even though looking at him made pain shoot through his chest, so severe he felt certain he was dying. He soon found out it wasn’t just the sight of him causing him agony. No, thinking of him sufficed as well, which, considering Johnny was the only thing on his mind, was rather unfortunate. 

He buried his face in his hands and took a shaky breath. And he thought—he’d known from the start it would be a terrible idea, and yet, somehow… 

Somewhere along the way Morrissey had begun to wonder if perhaps Johnny did return his feelings, that maybe he wasn’t doomed to love that was both laughably unrequited and all-consuming—somewhere between Johnny worrying for him, initiating physical contact at seemingly every chance he got, Johnny kissing his forehead, for heaven’s sake—he’d fallen into a dangerous pit of hope. That maybe Johnny loved him, and if he didn’t, then at least he  _ might _ if only Morrissey waited long enough. 

Which, of course, wasn’t the case. A stupid thing to entertain, and even worse to believe in. Somehow he’d convinced himself, though he knew this was how it would end. How could he have been so foolish? 

And maybe all that would have been fine, or at least not liable to soon destroy him, if only he’d kept his mouth shut. Maybe hope itself wouldn’t have killed him, despite the pain that would inevitably be brought on by its quickly proved futility. He might have survived. But no. 

For so long, he’d been doing so well hiding his feelings from Johnny and now all was lost—Johnny knew. There was nothing to be done, he had no hope of bettering the situation, of saving himself. 

Worse still, he’d have to face Johnny soon. He knew Johnny would show up (he had been civil about it previously, had obviously worked hard not to show his disgust. He wouldn’t abandon Morrissey—not without saying goodbye, and oh God, his throat constricted at the thought of it, of the next time being his very last time seeing Johnny—of Johnny leaving him forever), but if he was the one absent… That was the decent thing to do, wasn’t it? Save Johnny from having to deal with him. He wouldn’t force him to spend time in the same room. He couldn’t bear it if their last meeting wasn’t voluntary on Johnny’s part. 

Johnny, who probably loathed him now, would be grateful for the chance never to see him again—of their less than friendly parting being Morrissey’s fault, even. He would take the blame if it meant that Johnny’s hatred for him was slightly diminished, that he’d get the role of an unpleasant memory rather than someone Johnny would happily throw a punch at. 

Morrissey stood up from the bed. He crossed the room, stared at his reflection—he looked wrong, felt wrong—and had an urge to break the mirror. Seven years of bad luck? That would hardly make a difference. Who knows, maybe it’d cancel out. Maybe everything would be fixed. Maybe he’d be loved by Johnny—all because of a silly superstition. 

And if that didn’t work out, well, perhaps it would be a good enough distraction, standing and bleeding in the rain of shards, and Johnny would no longer be the only thing occupying him. 

He shook his head, stepped back, sat down on the bed again. He didn’t want to make that sort of scene. If he got hurt more than intended and ended up in the hospital, Johnny would hate him all the more. That is, he thought with a horrible feeling in his stomach, if anyone bothered to check up on him. It might just be he’d bleed to death on the floor and only weeks later would some unfortunate person find him. 

What was there to do? Maybe if he got rid of his love for Johnny, if he could prove to him that he had… That’s what had to be done, somehow, somehow… It seemed impossible, but there had to be a way. 

He closed his eyes, imagined before him a man he had never before seen. He pictured himself lying on his back on the bed, losing himself in his touch—but suddenly the stranger was gone and it was Johnny whose hands were on him, who was kissing him, whose mouth it was leaving marks on his neck. 

His face burned in shame and he rolled over, burying his face into a pillow. He wanted to cry, but even tears that were his last resort, that he hoped might bring him some relief, were denied from him. 

Half an hour later he ventured into the kitchen and came back with a bottle—strong enough that one glass would be more than enough, which was why it brought him immense satisfaction to keep serving himself more, with increasingly shaky hands. He tasted nothing. His body gave vague resistance at swallowing the liquid, but he paid it no mind. 

He didn’t stop thinking of Johnny for a second, though now he couldn’t quite comprehend why he should try in the first place. Johnny was wonderful to think of, even with the pain that enclosed and followed these thoughts, pain that was half-numbed in the wake of drinking, but still so remarkably  _ there.  _

He leant his elbows on the table and his face on his hands. For the lack of anything better to do, he kept taking swigs out of the bottle. He began growing wearier, struggled to hold himself upright. He wouldn’t stay awake for much longer, he knew, but it became now crucial to him to have a clean job made of the bottle, and so he emptied the rest of it—tried, at least, before he sent the thing flying to the floor, and it broke into a million pieces. 

He knelt down, picked up a shard, then another, which he then set on the table. 

This method of cleaning wasn’t very effective, he soon came to realise—the mess on the floor wasn’t reducing in the slightest. Not entirely safe, either, as he deduced from the fact that his hands were now bleeding (curious, for he felt nothing at all). 

He stood up, lost all his sense of direction—the kitchen had been on the right, now was on the left, the bathroom on the other hand was in the place where Morrissey could have sworn he last saw the front door… 

He found his way to bed eventually. This only brought him relief for a minute; it was too warm, then too cold, then too warm again. He opened a window. Someone was shouting outside. He lay back down and closed his eyes; everything spun, kept spinning till he fell, whether into a dream or not, he wasn’t certain, but he kept on falling. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve sort of lost touch with this story, so I’m sorry if the chapter’s a bit off. Hopefully the next one will be better. Would love to hear your thoughts on this—thanks so much for those still reading <3

The following morning Morrissey found himself unable to get out of bed. With every passing second, his state grew worse; his head felt as though someone was hammering it from the inside out, his throat was dry and his body weak and useless all over. It took a long time for him to open his eyes and when he finally did, he noticed his hands were covered in dried blood. He frowned, tried and failed to remember what had happened. He shut his eyes again and rolled over, burying his face in a pillow and drawing up the blanket to cover the back of his head. 

He fell asleep—into a blissfully dreamless, soundless and sightless void that he hoped never to be forced out of. Far too soon, however, reality crashed down on him in the form of a motorcycle starting in the street ( _ why _ was the window open?), which amplified his headache by a hundred and left him wanting to curl up on the floor and die. 

Morrissey got up, though his limbs protested this. In a matter of seconds, spots began appearing in his vision, first only at the edges, then everywhere, until he could no longer see anything. He tried to grab onto something for support, stumbled slightly, and landed his hand on the wall. It would be just his luck, he thought, if he were to pass out now. 

When he no longer seemed susceptible to falling to the floor, he carefully stepped away from the wall, not having entirely regained his balance still. He started making his way out of the room, feeling shaky and pathetic, and utmostly grateful no one was there to see him. 

He went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. He felt no better afterwards. 

Upon exiting the room, he nearly stepped on a piece of glass. He noticed to his great annoyance that the glass was all over the floor, below the dining table and the sofa, and worst of all, the fridge. Only by straining his memory, did he gain a faint recollection of breaking something—a bottle, from the looks of it. Now at least he’d found the source of the wounds on his hands. 

The floor was cleaned, very nearly with no further incident. However, when Morrissey was disposing of the last shards, he managed to cut open his hand again, and cursing silently, he made his way to the bathroom. 

He turned on the faucet and put his hands under, grimacing at the notable sting this brought on, yet finding a sort of comfort in it. He found some gauze in the cabinet and clumsily wrapped it around his hands, hoping it would prevent the wounds from opening again. 

He wandered to his bedroom and sat on the bed. Soon he picked out a record, began listening to it and turned it off when something about the sound seemed to be suffocating him. This he repeated so many times he lost count. He opened one book after another, got to somewhere around the third page before the words started appearing as a mere blur, a nonsensical thing that overwhelmed him, that made his throat constrict, at which point eyes strayed away and he had to give up. 

He got out a pen, opened his notebook and wrote. He stared at the words—unspeakably horrible, and so he must cross them out, then rip out the page and tear it into a hundred tiny pieces for good measure. 

Morrissey kept visiting the kitchen in order to boil water, forgot all about it within minutes, and when he remembered, the water had gone cold and he had to start again. When he did eventually manage to serve himself a cup of tea, his hands shook so badly he poured some on the front of his shirt, and had to conclude that even of this he was incapable. 

Every time he passed a mirror, he stared until his eyes hurt. His shoulders would slump; he’d cross his arms over his chest, close his eyes and breathe slowly. He’d then turn away. 

All through this, he persistently pushed away any at all thought of Johnny, which proved surprisingly easy. Once night came, however, any triumph he had in regards to this, was washed down the drain. 

The darkness fell over his flat suddenly, cold and lifeless. It was this very darkness that pushed aside all else, leaving him perfectly empty, only to conjure up an image of what he’d so carefully avoided all day. 

And he thought of Johnny. It only took a short moment’s lapse and then he was beyond hope of returning. 

He sat with his head in his hands and cried, hating how helpless he felt; how pitiful, hating the all-consuming silence and how he was yet too drained to get up and put a record on, hating the way his shirt suddenly seemed to dig into his skin till it was almost painful, even though it had been just fine before. 

And he, despised by the one he loved, must despise himself accordingly—this having been dictated by not only the laws of the universe, but also the very essence of his own mind, for Johnny mattered to him more than any other; more than breathing, more than life. 

Johnny held more importance than he himself did, certainly, he had from the moment Morrissey had first met him. And this would never change. Without Johnny, everything was meaningless, tiresome, unbearable. 

Morrissey thought longingly of the cabinet with a row of bottles, each of them perfectly suited for taking his mind somewhere far away. Then he remembered the path he’d gone down yesterday with said drinks, how everything today seemed consequently duller, yet more frightening, and he stuck to the dreaded soberness. He didn’t think he could endure feeling worse still tomorrow. 

It would have been a relief going to bed, had he managed to fall asleep. Instead he spent hours first staring at the ceiling, then at the wall, and finally with his face against the mattress, head buried under the pillow. Nothing helped. He felt more awake than he had in weeks—in  _ years.  _ Before he could catch up to what he was doing, he had dialed a well-memorised number on the telephone. He was holding the receiver to his ear, his heart beating so loud he worried it could be heard at the other end. 

When Johnny replied with a confused ‘hello’, Morrissey finally came to his senses. He slammed down the receiver with such vigour he might  well have  broken it, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He looked around the room where suddenly everything appeared horribly disproportionate and blurry. Breathing was getting rather difficult as it dawned on him that whatever he did, wherever he went, there was no escape from the suffering destined to be his. 

This in mind, he spiralled into a nightmare and then another, and he couldn’t decide whether he preferred this to his waking hours. 


	11. Chapter 11

Johnny was late for practice. So late, in fact, that even Andy and Mike, who had no idea of the disaster having gone down between the other two, started doubting whether he’d come at all. Andy suggested they call Johnny. Morrissey shrugged in response. Andy asked whether Morrissey would like to do it, which Morrissey refused—so decisively it was suspicious, he figured, since this earned him an exceedingly odd look from Andy. Thankfully he didn’t inquire further. Not yet, at least. 

Andy had gone to phone Johnny. He’d returned with a concerned look that told Morrissey all he needed to know. 

Johnny had not replied. No one knew about his whereabouts. He didn’t intend to show up. This was when Andy decided to approach him. 

“Moz,” he began cautiously, “d’you know of, er, Johnny, where he might be? He didn’t talk with you after last practice, did he? You weren’t there, he was worried, I thought he might…” 

“He did talk to me,” said Morrissey. “The day before yesterday. I haven’t seen him since.” His voice was completely emotionless, not out of attempt to make it so, but from sheer exhaustion. 

Andy seemed slightly troubled about speaking to him, as if in fear of being perceived as annoying. Morrissey felt guilty—not just about making Andy feel unwelcome, but also about the fact that he knew well why Johnny was absent; that it was his fault. Andy should be annoyed with him and not the other way around. 

“Right,” said Andy, taking a step back and glancing over his shoulder uneasily. 

“I—” started Morrissey, trying to think of something to say, something to convey that Andy was in no way to blame for his being particularly gloomy today. The words seemed strangely hard to find. “I’m sorry,” he tried, for which Andy looked at him curiously. “I’m sorry for being such terrible company. I’m truly not feeling my best today.” 

“Oh,” said Andy. He seemed slightly puzzled. “Should I leave you alone, then? I mean, if you’d like…” 

“No,” Morrissey cut him off. “Please sit.” He gestured towards the chair beside him. 

Andy nodded, then sat down, on the very edge. 

“He’ll be here soon,” said Morrissey, more to reassure himself than anything else. Andy gave him a tight-lipped smile, looking as though he wasn’t at all convinced, but didn’t want to shatter Morrissey’s hopes. 

Minutes went by slowly. Andy would glance at the door then at Morrissey. Eventually he said: “Look, maybe he’s slept in, or… forgotten. We should go home. He’ll be here next time.” 

Morrissey intended to agree with him, but was unable to follow through. He shook his head, then covered his face with his hands and tried to calm himself. 

“You all right?” asked Andy. Morrissey nodded vaguely. He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and looked up—just then, the door was opened. 

Johnny stumbled in. He was looking down, very deliberately, and said nothing in greeting. Straight away, he made his way to the other end of the room to his guitar and strummed a few chords. 

“What’re we playing first?” asked Johnny. He addressed the question to Mike—Morrissey was off limits and Andy was clearly standing dangerously close to him—but it was Morrissey who replied. Johnny’s shoulders tensed slightly. He nodded, still facing the opposite direction. 

They began playing, with an unusual disharmony in the sound. Andy and Mike were playing well, steadily, but often Johnny would speed up and throw everyone off course; then Morrissey would add to the disruption by singing the wrong verse or forgetting to start singing in the first place. 

Morrissey couldn’t help but notice how Johnny stood a safe distance away from him. Not so far as to provoke attention from anyone else, but further than he ever did before. Morrissey took a shaky breath and tried his best to compose himself. He refused to cry here, convinced he might die of shame if he did, but it seemed he was getting closer to breaking down by the minute. 

Johnny was avoiding looking at him—not pointedly, but in a manner he must have thought subtle. And he succeeded, nearly. It could have been subtle, were it not for every interaction between them before Morrissey decided to ruin everything. 

Because before, Johnny had hugged him, had smiled at him, hadn’t been so terribly  _ uncomfortable  _ around him. And God, he regretted ever saying anything. 

_ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. We can forget about it, please let’s forget about it,  _ he longed to tell him. But of course he said nothing. If Johnny didn’t talk to him, he had to retaliate—which, he had to remind himself, probably pleased Johnny rather than saddened him. And why wouldn’t it? If Morrissey kept his distance, then at least Johnny wouldn’t have to be so disgusted, wouldn’t have to consider… 

What would happen if Johnny didn’t think it enough to stand at the other end of the room—what if it didn’t suffice to simply not talk with Morrissey? Was he going to leave him completely? He wouldn’t do that—would he? Though Morrissey had entertained the thought before, now it seemed further away, didn’t seem at all possible.

Between changing songs, Johnny walked up to Andy, leant very close to him and whispered something. About a minute after, Andy appeared beside Morrissey, looking highly uncomfortable. 

He coughed slightly, then said: “Your hands—you’ve hurt them, have you? Do you need anything?” 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out Johnny had put him up to this. He had to play the hero somehow, even when he couldn’t stomach talking to Morrissey—the latter felt an unexpected surge of anger at this. 

Morrissey took pity on Andy, who looked as though he’d rather get hit by a truck than carry out the post of a messenger that Johnny had persuaded him to. Morrissey smiled when he said: “No, I’ll be all right. I wasn’t hurt too badly. Only a broken bottle.” 

He then turned to look at Johnny, who averted his gaze nearly quickly enough to create the illusion he hadn’t been staring. Morrissey sighed, his shoulders sagging. Andy seemed about to question him, then thought better of it and left him alone, went to talk to Mike, and carefully avoided stumbling upon Johnny again. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, it's been ages! So sorry not to have updated this story in so long. I'll be overjoyed if someone'll still read this :)

Three days and another troublesome band practice later Johnny deemed it appropriate to start talking to Morrissey again. Indeed, appropriate was the word Morrissey would choose to describe this conversation, seeing as Johnny had once again broken into his flat using the damned key he’d mistakenly given him. 

Johnny had arrived with no warning whatsoever. No knocking on the door, no reminding Morrissey of the fact that he could very well get in regardless of whether he opened the door. Morrissey thought the lack of announcement was a good idea, in that he may have fled the flat otherwise, through the window, perhaps. Nothing was off limits when it came to his newfound desire to avoid Johnny. 

He didn’t leave his bedroom. He had no intention of greeting his friend. If Johnny had decided to discard all courtesy, then so would he. 

Johnny, unfortunately, found him. Morrissey, who had been hoping he’d get lost on the way, was greatly displeased. 

He hastily grabbed a book from his bedside table. He sat down on the bed and pretended to read. Perhaps Johnny would be discouraged from talking to him upon noticing how awfully busy he was doing other things. 

“Hello,” said Johnny. At the very least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. 

Morrissey gave him an annoyed look. “I’m reading, Johnny.” He glanced at the book in his hands and resisted crying out in frustration upon realising he was holding it upside down. He hoped Johnny wouldn’t notice. But of course he did. 

“Yeah?” said Johnny with a smile. “From a new perspective and all? Enlightening.” He then seemed to remember whatever it was that had brought him here (and Morrissey knew well what, just hoped it was something,  _ anything _ else) and his expression turned from amused to grave. 

“Moz,” Johnny said. Receiving no reaction from Morrissey, who was quite pointedly staring at the still upside-down pages, he sighed. For a long moment he said nothing and Morrissey, not daring to look up, thought he might have left already. That is until the book he was reading—would have been reading, at least, had Johnny not rudely interrupted him, was ripped out of his hands. 

Morrissey glared at him, hoping to convey all the annoyance he felt. His expression still ended up of half-adoration, for which Morrissey would have liked to cry, but which, now he thought of it, wouldn’t make much of a difference since Johnny already knew. Suddenly he felt himself void of all defiance. Exhaustion took over and he glanced at Johnny, hoping he’d understand the silent permission to talk. Which, of course he did. 

Johnny sat down next to him. For a moment, he was quiet. Then he started talking—quickly, as if that would alleviate the misery of the situation. “I’ve been stupid, y’know, well, that’s obvious. You can’t help the way you feel—though, of course it’d be better if you weren’t, y’know… I mean, better if you weren’t in love with me,” (Morrissey wished Johnny went right ahead and stabbed him already) “better in terms of the band, y’know and our friendship, and I suppose, better for you as well. But it’s not as if you’ve chosen to be—well, y’know.” 

Morrissey shut his eyes tightly, as if that would somehow shield him from Johnny’s words. He found it made no difference. 

Johnny continued speaking. Morrissey wished he didn’t. There was nothing he could say to make this better—except, of course, that he was madly in love with Morrissey and was very sorry not to have expressed this earlier. This, regrettably, wasn’t what Johnny had in mind. 

“It’s not your fault, how you feel, and it was wrong of me to—to flee on you and then not to speak to you at practice. God, I made it awkward, well, it was awkward to begin with, but I made it worse. Sorry.” 

Morrissey nodded slowly. Johnny stared at him, unaware Morrissey had no intention of properly acknowledging his having said anything on the matter. 

“I see,” said Morrissey with a smile that was both natural beyond compare and most adequately timed. Oh, how he was glad to be so well-versed in the masking of feelings! “I must go.” 

He ignored Johnny’s crestfallen expression. 

“Go where?” 

“Er,” said Morrissey. Where indeed? 

“Well?” 

“To a club,” Morrissey found himself saying. “Where I’ve agreed to meet Andy and Mike.” This was a lie. He’d previously made it clear to them he wasn’t going. 

Johnny stared at him, then nodded. “I’m coming with.” 

*** 

Johnny’s face was the only clear thing in his vision. An enjoyable thing, in the sense that Johnny was lovely, very lovely. Now, however, he was being simply annoying. 

He had been, for a good five minutes, trying to get the drink out of Morrissey’s hands, which, thought Morrissey amusedly, would be more of a success if he happened to be taller.

Then he thought some more and suddenly he didn’t feel amused at all. Because it wasn’t just that Johnny was annoying him—he was being terribly unfair, too. Not only had he broken Morrissey’s heart, but now he was trying to deny him his only means of mending it as well. 

Morrissey turned to gaze sullenly at the crowd. 

Johnny said something. Morrissey wasn’t listening—he had caught sight of something.  _ Someone _ . This someone was tall and very handsome and Morrissey found it of utmost importance to talk to him immediately. 

Morrissey left Johnny standing by himself and carefully kept his eyes on the man so as not to lose sight of him. 

“Moz, where are you going?” Johnny shouted after him. Morrissey didn’t stop—he made his way to the man, who, it soon appeared, wasn’t at all displeased with his company. 

***

Mike had disappeared some twenty minutes ago. That’s why Andy was relieved to encounter Johnny, though, with guilt he remembered they hadn’t invited him at all. 

“Good to see you here,” said Andy. 

Johnny didn’t reply. He seemed to be in a sour mood. 

“Have you seen Moz?” said Johnny. 

Andy frowned. “He’s here? He said he wasn’t coming.” 

Andy regretted mentioning this because it seemed to annoy Johnny further. “Did he now? So he did it just to—well, it doesn’t matter… Doesn't matter at all. I’m leaving. If you see him, tell him to find another ride home. Although—” a hint of malice crept into his tone, “—I bet he’s got one already.” 

He left, leaving behind Andy, who felt utterly confused. It was another half an hour till he caught sight of another familiar face, Morrissey’s, this time. He was with a man Andy didn’t recognise—they were standing very close to one another. Andy thought it better not to disturb them, regardless of Johnny’s wishes. 

This was until he noticed Morrissey stumbling away from the now puzzled-looking man, nearly falling over in the process. Andy caught up with him just as he got to the loos. 

Morrissey was on his knees on the dirty floor, his elbows leant on the toilet seat. He was breathing unsteadily. 

“Moz,” said Andy cautiously. Morrissey looked delighted to see him. He seemed about to say something but ended up instead bent over the toilet, finishing up his vomiting with a series of violent coughs. 

*** 

“No, Andy,” said Morrissey. “You see, I can’t leave. I’ll have to find, uh…” What was his name again? Well, that hardly mattered. “He was lovely. We were just about to—” 

He frowned; Andy wasn’t listening. He was looking in the opposite direction. Seeming to have spotted something, he grabbed Morrissey by the arm and dragged him through the crowd. 

Morrissey tried to protest, but Andy didn’t respond. Morrissey couldn’t free himself—Andy’s grip on his arm was too strong. 

If he was denied a night with the man he was certain would have been a most adequate lover, then Andy would simply have to fill in for him. He voiced this, or something alike, at which Andy seemed at first surprised, then amused. With a smile, he shook his head. “Come on, Moz, we’re nearly at the exit. I’ll take you home.” 

Morrissey’s declaration of how he didn’t intend to go home, how he was going to spend his night here where he needn’t be alone, was lost somewhere in the noise around them. 


End file.
